Blood, Sweat and Tears
by Lock Lokidottir
Summary: John is frequently plagued by his war service. After he comes back, broken, his nightmares become vicious- and aimed towards one person in particular- who isn't who he first appears to be. Eventual Johnlock. Rate/review please!
1. The heat and throbbing heart

John Watson was sure he heard gunshots in the distance.

His heart was pounding, he could feel it deep inside his chest, in the palms of his hands and his feet. Jesus- he heard dogs snarling, to close for comfort. He could hear them growling- John Watson closed his eyes and allowed his other senses to explore the scene.

The smell of blood-_ that_ coppery, salty smell- was there, hovering ominously around the scene. The smoke from a small bomb nearby hung there, and it had the same affect. A smell was slowly filling their noses, and the stench of something like rotten meat made them all gag, but they were all too scared to make a sound.

As a loud bang sounded, and the sound of unfriendly dogs snarling and barking sounded even closer, John wrenched open his eyes.

They- John and his team- were kneeling behind trenches, guns clasped to their chest. John was trying to comfort the young man, Aaron Soans- well, boy really, he was only 18- next to him while trying to control himself at the same time. It was a difficult task.

The heat was unbearable; If he looked to his left, on the horizon he could see the heat waves rise up from the dusty plane. His mouth was dry, but he was sweating- he had never been so terrified in his life.

Aaron was praying, clasping a rosary in his balled up fist, muttering. He was visibly sweating, his eyes screwed up.

'_And the father, the son and the holy spirit….'_

More shots, this time much closer. John looked around, and saw his team all looking at him with wide, scared eyes.

'Don't shoot, not yet. Wait.'

As he cast an eye across his small team. They all looked so lost, so terrified, so… young. Many of them were in their teens, or early twenties. Far too young, in Johns opinion. They shouldn't be here, fighting for their country, their lives; they had hardly begun.

To try and calm himself, he went through the members of the team, trying to block out the carnage.

There was Jamie Jones- the 24 year old who had a heart of steel. Under the immense pressure, he wasn't shaking at all- he looked perfectly calm, detached. When he caught Johns eye, he gave him a reassuring smile-_ whoa,_ John thought, _such a role reversal_. _Shouldn't _I_ be comforting _him_?_

Then there was the tanned Aaron Soans, who was by far the youngest and most inexperienced there. He was shaking, the sweat matting in his ginger hair and running into his eyes. Aarons finger was already on the trigger, ready to fire at advancing soliders. His breathing was ragged, and his eyes were darting about, but still he bravely crouched. John's heart softened slightly.

Jason Downs had a neutral expression- John had to admit, he was impressed. The only thing that gave him away was the shaking of his hands.

Jasons eyes looked dead, expressionless- it chilled him to the bone, though John was sure he had worn that expression many-a time. Seeing a guy of his sheer size (he towered over John by about a foot) and weight with that expression could make even the bravest of men cower.

And then there was Ameet- he was an afghan himself, and was muttering under his breath. John got most irritated with him- probably not because he was an afghan, but because he was such a bloody coward. He would rather stay here, and let his friends die than do the same for them.

'Al tahiat u lilah wa al salawat wa taibat,al salam-'

Ameet honestly looked ready to jump out of the trench and ready to run; however when more shots fired, he curled into the foetal position by their feet, whimpering softly.

John grabbed him roughly and almost threw him into the side of the trench.

'Don't you fucking _dare_,' John snarled at him. 'If you run, you will be shot- if not by them-' he jerked his thumb in the direction of the opposition. 'Then by us. _I_ will take great pleasure- I don't like cowards, Ameet. Do you understand?'

The man nodded, terrified. He was sure that Ameet hadn't understood all of the English, but by John throwing him into the side, grabbing the front of his uniform, and having all of his team glare at him, John was sure he got the message.

John tried to slow his breathing- he sounded like he was panting.

And the last on his team- probably the eldest, not including himself- was Sherlock Holmes. He looked perfectly fine now, his pale skin almost reflecting the sunlight, the wind tousling his dark ebony curls. He turned to John and grinned, the resettled himself into a more comfy position before taking another firm grip on his gun across his lap.

John had time to notice that Sherlock's pale features turned into a frown, then a look of terror.

Suddenly, the sun was blocked out. There was shouting, gasps of surprise as the enemy invaded- only they weren't_ all_ human.

The first thing John realised was that he had been bitten by two dogs- once in the leg as it jumped in the trench before being shot by Sherlock, however that didn't even break the skin; It was the second devil dog that had John's arm in his mouth, biting harder and harder with every second, the blood oozing around its jaws and adding a new red layer into its matted fur.

It took John three seconds- way to long for a soldier- to react. With his right hand, he tried to fish out his gun which he had dropped in surprise.

Unfortunately, the dog wasn't letting go, and John allowed himself a pained moan as the dog tried to pull his arm out of its socket. The dog growled and started shaking its head, John's arm still in its powerful jaws.

Johns other hand frantically patted the bottom of the trench. His gun- he _needed_ his gun. Almost crying in relief, and grasping the cool trigger, he detacted himself as best he could- this horrifying situation wasn't happening to him _or_ his team.

They were all too young to die- it wouldn't be fair. He was silently praying to anyone that was listening as he put more pressure on the trigger. There was an almighty bang, before the dog that had his arm collapsed, blood, shards of skull and brain decorating the sand behind it.

John jumped out of the trench and onto enemy lines. He saw his boys fighting for their lives, battling bravely against the many men that severely outnumbered them all.

Federal dogs snarled and snapped- he was sure the oppisition had trained them to try and kill any living thing within biting distance- it wasn't an uncommon practise.

Suddenly, Doctor Watsons blood ran cold as he heard a soldiers baritone scream. Turing to look, he saw a pack of the wild dogs pin down a solider, and started tearing at his chest and throat. It was too dangerous to help- he didn't have the strenth to fight them all off, and checking his gun, he didn't have the bullets either.

He closed his eyes for a second, concentrating as bullets whistled past his head. For the first time in his life, John was praying.

_Listen, God, Jesus, Allah whatever your name is, help. Do me a favour- I know I've not been the best follower ever, but can you help us out? I know I'm gonna die, it's inevitable, but my boys are too young. Not like this- they have wives, some have children at home, they have family. I don't- take me instead, but let them live, please!_

He opened his eyes. The shouting stopped, so had the gunshots and the snapping and snarling of the dogs. John inspected his arm- it was bleeding heavily, and the little bastard had bitten down near enough to the bone, but he was alive.

But that didn't matter… _That's_ why the shouting had stopped.

The Afghans retreated, as there was no-one left to fight. He quickly clocked the injuries to his men.

Jamie Jones was visibly dying. John rushed over and Jones gave a strangled laugh.

'Where?' said John, eyes roaming the surface of the soldiers uniform. 'Tell me!'

Another strangled laugh escaped his lips, and as he looked up John noticed that his lips and teeth were blood-stained. He tried to keep the expression neutral, but John felt his features twisting.

'Stomach. Nice- I'll be dead in the next-' he glanced at his watch- 'five minutes, I suppose. Being shot there is a nasty bugger, though you'll know that, Doctor- the blood mixes with the acid found in the stomach; only, when it mixes, it causes fatal toxermia and death. Fun, fun, fun.'

Doctor Watson didn't know how to reply- he was right. Judging by the blood loss, Jamie would be dead sooner. All Watson could do was sit on his heels and hold Jamies hand as he slipped.

'Watson.' Jamie muttered through clenched teeth after a few minutes. 'You still here?'

'Yes, I am. What is it?'

'Help them.' He moved his head weakly to the side and his eyes flickered open to look at his face determinedly. 'I'm a gonner, but they might not be.'

And with that, Jamies' hand went limp, the grip loosened. John Watson's right hand was shaking as he felt for a pulse. Nothing.

_Dead._

John gave a shaky breath and exhaled slowly. Okay, calm down. That's one gone- and there was so much blood spattered about it looked like a horror movie set gone wrong- but there still was a chance, however slim, that he wasn't the only one alive.

He listened out- the battlefield was eerily silent. No gunshots, or snarling dogs- not even the breathing of his own men was to be heard.

John Watson got up, Jamie's hand falling out of his, and cast a nervous eye around.

Aaron Soans had a bullet wound to his chest- it looked like it was from a rather large and nasty looking gun. There was a hole- about one and a half inches big- right where his heart was. Scarlet blood was quickly soaking his camouflage and running in neat streams and pooling onto the sand. One of the streams had run down his arm, and was gathering in the hand in which he held the rosary. Wasn't fate artistic?

_Dead._

He dropped down into the trench, gun still clasped to his chest.

Jason Down had his head pressed against the side, almost like he had fallen asleep- curious, John shook his shoulder. He didn't stir, so John tenderly turned him over.

Johns breath caught in his throat, and he pushed down the tears that were threatening to smart his eyes.

Jason was lying there, a neat little wound- from a gun and bullet much smaller than the one that had killed Aaron- in the centre of his eyebrows. Blood ran down his nose and dripped onto his lap. He had been shot at close range, John observed, judging by the spatter patterns on the wall and the mess. His eyes were still wide, terrified, even though he was no longer breathing. A white film had started to form over his brilliant blue irises.

_Dead. _

Guilt churned in Johns stomach, and he briefly wondered if he was going to throw up… Aaron had a wife at home, Jason had a young daughter… and he had escaped, unharmed, while the bodies of his friends littered the world about him.

They were all dead. Dead, dead, dead, dead…. _Dead_.

Ameet was nowhere to be seen. John slid down the trench wall, and a dry sob wracked his body. He swore he heard violin music in the distance. How peculiar- he was sure he wasn't so dehydrated he was hallucinating.

He allowed a fat tear to roll down his cheek. Doctor John H. Watson had failed. He held his head in his hands.

Johns heart stopped as he heard a groan. There was another- it sounded like a whimper. Someone was hurt- he clocked the bodies he had seen; Jason, Aaron, Jamie, Ameet… all that was left was Sherlock Holmes.

_Sherlock._

John jumped out of the trench, grabbing his kit, and almost immediately saw him, laying there, hardly moving. How could he've not noticed him?

Johns blood ran cold as he got closer, seeing the injuries Sherlock had sustained. There were bite marks- so, so many open wounds- dripping blood and soaking his uniform. They were on his arms, legs, face, neck...

'John?'

Sherlock's voice cracked as he saw the approaching doctor. He blinked hard- not because he was crying, but because blood from a wound on his head had started to drip into his eyes.

Sherlock was tired- he wanted nothing more than to sleep. The blood loss was making him sleepy, and even the pain that made him scream in agony no more than ten minutes ago had started to feel a bit fuzzy. There was a faint ringing in his ears, and Sherlock felt his lids drooping….

'Sherlock,' he heard John snap, somewhere above him. 'Don't you fucking dare. You have to stay awake, do you understand? You can't go to sleep.'

John started to clean the wounds, using a cloth and a golden coloured liquid Sherlock's nose identified as antiseptic. No matter how gentle the doctor tried to be, it still stung, and Sherlock gasped in surprise.

'Sorry, sorry.'

'It hurts,' Sherlock whimpered, a tear falling out of his screwed up eyes and onto the sand. John's heart broke.

'You're gonna be fine.' said John, gently resting Sherlock's head on his lap as he started to clean his cut lip and bite wound he had sustained on his scalp. Once he had finished, John stroked Sherlocks wild curls, trying to soothe the young soldier. 'See? Help will be here in a minute. I promise, Sherlock- do you have any family?'

The solider shook his head from side to side.

'No.'

Sherlock suddenly sat up, and John recoiled in surprise. He was now sat at Sherlock's side, while the latters green eyes darted round the scene of carnage.

'Jesus-'

'He doesn't help. I tried.'

Sherlock smiled as he leant back on his hand. His whole body was bruised, and the wounds still stung, the muscles were aching- he just hadn't realised how many wounds there were. He looked at the doctor and took in his concern, which was radiating off of the man in waves. The doctor couldn't have been much older than him- probably about thirty, at most.

Sherlock shyly looked at the doctor through his lashes. Hand on a second- were they getting closer? They were- it wasn't the blood loss getting to his head. It wasn't an illusion. Johns head and heart were pounding.

John was disappointed to see Sherlock eyes flitted, so that he was looking over Johns shoulders. He sat back on his heels, sighing. He also frowned when he saw Sherlock eyes widen, before he shouted.

'Look out!'

The next moment, Sherlock shoved him- but the angle of which Sherlock had meant that he was shoved backwards and he found himself sprawled on his back on the sand.

John realised in half a second that a bang had sounded moments before. The next thing he realised, not a second later, was that his shoulder was burning. John heard an animal screaming, but he didn't care about that. He was on fire.

He was writing on the floor- he couldn't help it. Agony consumed his body like the furious fires of hell. Blinking back tears, and turning his head to the side to see, John saw he wasn't on fire. With a jolt, he realised it wasn't an animal- the sound was coming out of him, the shriek rumbiling in his chest and bubbling out of his taut lips.

The bullet had shattered the top part of his shoulder blade, nicked his collar bone, and exited the other side. He had been shot.

Gritting his teeth, tears smarted his eyes, threatening to overspill... He felt hazy- oh, God, the bullet hadn't punctured an artery, had it? Or was this what dying felt like? His heartbeat quickened, which didn't help things.

His thoughts suddenly turned to the younger soldier who had saved him.

'Sherlock?'

No answer. With a pained grunt, he sat himself up.

'Sherlo-'

He dragged himself closer, no matter what excruciating pain he was in. The Doctors shoulder itself was almost screaming in agony… but that all went blank as his heart faltered in his chest.

John Watson wasn't the only one who had been shot.

A neat little wound, in the centre of Sherlock's eyebrows, half covered by his hair, was steadily bleeding. John frantically felt for a pulse, for shallow breathing, for signs of life… but there were none.

The bullet had exited his body…. And gone straight into the head of his fellow solider, his friend and his saviour.

That was enough to make even the bravest of soldiers crack. Doctor John Watson did, and felt his grip on reality slip.

'Sherlock!' he screamed, shaking the now vacant body, hoping for a reaction. '_Sherlock! Sherlock! __**Sherlock!**_'

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So what do you think? Should I carry on and add more chapters, or should this be a one shot? Review/opinions please! S.N x


	2. The Violin player

John Watson woke up with a start, his body and the sheets drenched in sweat.

He was sobbing- Sherlock was dead. He had been shot, trying to be noble and brave and utterly utterly _stupid!_

He let the tears flow before wrenching off the covers- they felt like hands, wrapping around him, trapping him, sealing his fate.

He had honestly thought he was going to die- he could still feel it; the heat, the horror, the adrenaline of Afghanistan…

But he wasn't out in the battlefield. He was in his bedroom, at 221B Baker street, and Sherlock- the one who had just died in his arms- was sat in the chair, facing John's bed. His violin was in his hand- he had been playing it to try and soothe him.

John was so touched that urge to cry was becoming even more overwhelming.

'Sherlock!'

Before John (or Sherlock, for that matter) knew it, John had launched himself at the half-raised Sherlock, wrapping his hands around the taller mans shoulders. John buried his face in Sherlocks chest, having his shirt quickly become damp with tears.

'Y-you… I in Afghanistan!' John howled, his voice slightly muffled and hysterical. 'My team were d-dead and you got shot saving me and it was a-all my fault!'

'John, calm down.' Sherlock commanded. He was slightly stiff He hesitantly wrapped his hands around the smaller mans waist.

'I'm alive, I'm fine, you're fine, and we're not in Afghanistan.'

'But… but it was so real. And it happened too- I g-got shot, and my team were dead around me.' John lifted his tear streaked face to look at Sherlock's. '…and it was a-all my fault-'

Sherlock continued to rub his friends back. It was relaxing... Well sort of- it reminded him that Sherlock wasn't dead, but he started to feel slightly aroused by his touch…

John desperately wanted to kiss Sherlock. He wanted Sherlock to be _his_, because he thought this fluttering in his chest was love. Actually, scratch that- John _knew_ it was love.

The detectives shoulder was becoming soaked, but he didn't show any signs of discomfort. He had been there when John had been having his nightmare- and trying to soothe and comfort him while keeping his distance. The thought of such kindness coming from Sherlock was enough to make his chest feel gooey, like chocolate left out in the sun. How many other people would do that?

He wanted Sherlock to hold him tight all night and whisper words of comfort in his ear. He wanted Sherlock's lips crashing down on his with fiery passion. He wanted Sherlock to feel the slightest fraction of love that he himself felt- then maybe he would understand.

But John knew that would never happen. It was an impossibility- Sherlock was asexual, and John was bisexual. They were two extreme ends of the same scale.

Moreover, even though John had enough evidence to prove otherwise, Sherlock was a self-diagnosed sociopath. Sociopaths don't… love.

John unwound his arms from Sherlocks neck, and gently pushed Sherlock back by his shoulders.

'Thanks,' said John, gesturing to the violin. 'I heard it- it helped.'

Sherlock smiled and before John knew it, he was gone.

…

John.

That was the first word that flickered in his mind. He was downstairs on the sofa, his throat burning, watching a repeat of Jeremy Kyle to distract himself.

'No, no no!' he snarled, gripping his ebony hair. 'he can't be the father- just look at her! It's obvious- look at her trainers, numbskull! She's been sleeping around!'

He switched off the telly and threw the remote at the screen.

Ugh- he needed to feed, and quite soon. It made him cranky and lethargic, but most of all, it was actual, physical _pain_. He rubbed his cool hand across his throat, until a scream sounded from upstairs. His hand momentarily clenched, before he found himself upstairs in the same second.

While he was as fast as lightening coming up the stairs, but as he stood outside John's room, he hesitated. Sherlock pondered whether he should go in or not- he was incredibly thirsty, and it probably wasn't a good idea to loom over John in one of his night terrors.

But as another cry sounded out, he shouldered the door open and burst into the room without another thought.

He knew immediately that John wasn't awake. The one thing John had asked him to do, if he ever had a nightmare in Sherlock's company, was let him sleep it through.

Sherlock wasn't prepared to leave and go downstairs, not while John was like this. So Sherlock drew up a chair and watched his best friend in horror and amazement.

Johns limbs twitched periodically, each time his expression twisting into something that resembled animalistic pain. Every time he did this, a sob or muffled scream would escape his lips. More than once, a big, crystalline tear escaped from his eye and scaled its way down Johns face.

He scratched at his face and neck, or clutched the covers- whatever was haunting John, it sure was bad.

Once, his heart froze in horror as his friends back arched, his brow furrowed and he bit his lip so hard it drew blood. Then John did something Sherlock never had heard before… he whimpered.

'Please, live.' Another tear. 'Too young…'

Sherlock swallowed- he could hear Johns frantic heart thrumming. The coppery smell of blood made his throat _ache__, _and John was lying there sleeping, helpless, defenceless… No. John was his friend- but he needed a distraction.

Sherlock quickly grasped his violin, rested his chin and started to play _God Save The Queen_- It was Johns favourite. Maybe it would soothe him?

Sherlocks assumption was right-John started to visibly relax. His arched back returned to ramrod straight with a thump as he landed on a mattress, his screwed up eyes became less tense and his eyes weren't whizzing so erratically behind his eyelids. He looked kind of…. Peaceful.

He played it over and over again for the next half an hour, until John's night terrors got too much for the doctor to cope.

'Sherlock.' John said clearly. Sherlock froze- had John woken up? He did a quick check- nope, he was still sound asleep. Sherlock frowned- what could he possibly have to do with Johns nightmare? He stopped playing.

Suddenly, the doctor started writing and screaming worse than before.

'Sherlock, _SHERLOCK_, _**SHERLOCK**_!'

John sat bolt upright, sobbing, a sheen of sweat covering his face. He vigorously wiped the tears that were spilling over and running freely down his face.

He looked around, taking in the surroundings. Sherlock wondered whether he should go- waking up to see your ghostly pale flatmate wasn't the best thing ever.

Sherlock saw the good doctor rise, and before he knew it John had his arms around his neck and was sobbing onto his chest.

Sherlock froze. The scent of John was antagonising him- it made his mouth start to water. If he breathed in, he could smell Orange tea, mint toothpaste, pinecones and raspberry jam….

No. John was his friend- not his meal. Holding his breath, he gritted his teeth and gently wound his hands around Johns waist. John didn't push him away- the taller mans cool body was comforting.

Was there any rule book to say that you couldn't comfort your friend like this in a time of need? Sherlock deleted that thought as soon as it came. John needed him- and to a certain extent, Sherlock needed him too.

'Y-you… I in Afghanistan!' his friend howled, his voice hysterical. The tears were really flowing; he had a warm, wet patch on his chest where Johns eyes were. 'My team were d-dead and you got shot saving me and it was a-all my fault-!'

Sherlocks heart cracked slightly as Johns voice did.

'Calm down,' he said, rubbing circles on his best friends back. I'm alive, I'm fine, you're fine, and we're not in Afghanistan.'

'But… but it was so real. And it happened too- I g-got shot, and my team were dead around me.' John lifted his tear streaked face to look at Sherlock's. '…and it was a-all my fault-'

Oh, _John!_

_That's_ what has been causing your nightmares, Sherlock thought. You've taken the blame for something that you couldn't control…

Of course, Sherlock was referring to Reichenbach- a year after his 'death', Sherlock had returned from the dead.

John didn't really believe his eyes at first- he thought that drink and strong anti-depression medication combo had damaged his brain- but when he realised Sherlock was here, for Sherlock had been punched; unsurprisingly, but he had been careful to avoid the nose and teeth. John ended up hurting his hand- while Sherlock hadn't sustained any damage, which fuelled his anger even more.

'Afghanistan was never your fault, John,' Sherlock said with earnest, wiping away a hot tear that escaped from John's eye with a cool finger. 'It could've happened to anyone. You didn't provoke it, or ask for it in any way.' He pressed his face closer to Johns, his hot breath tickling his cheek as he locked eyes with John. 'And I'm not going anywhere.'

John's eyes locked with Sherlock's. If anyone came in and saw them now, they would've walked in on a couple.

But it broke his heart to think that he and John could never be. It was forbidden- unfortunately- by his brother and the council of elders. Humans had to stay separate from vampires, witches and werewolves. Not physical contact- but actual, romantic relationships, something he was desperate to have with the same person who had his arms around his neck right now.

Also, what about his control? Just by John being there, his warm, tanned hands curled around sherlock, exposing his neck was near enough to make it incredibly hard to resist… he couldn't be here much longer. His control was ebbing away at a dangerously fast rate-

But with a sigh, John uncurled his arms pushed him away.

Um, thanks for that,' John gestured to the violin and gave him a small smile. 'I heard it, it was nice.'

Sherlock smiled- and with that, he went out of the room.


	3. Maliki

I haven't even told you how I got the insparation yet! Sorry! Anyway, listen to the song 'I'm in love with a vampire' by Saving Jane, and a highly skilled drawing of Sherlock as a vampire *drool!*.

Also- rate and review! I get emails chucked at me saying people have added me to their faves... but hardly any reviews to go with it! C'mon people! Rate and review!

Anyway... chaper 3!

* * *

Sherlock prowled across the London rooftops, his coat flying out behind him. He was feeling elated. He was powerful, the predator- he was free.

After John fell asleep again, Sherlock had slipped out into the night. He had a criminal to catch- and he was sure he would eventually make a meal and experiment out of it two. Double bonus, he thought with some sarcasm in his internal dialogue.

Alyssa Barracks, that was her name. She was charged with a murder of an elderly man- Greg had requested his assistance. He and his team couldn't find her- Sherlock wondered what the taxpayers money was spend on- Scotland yard had trained computer hackers, the software, the works- and yet Sherlock had taken a day, a mobile and some fake profiles posing as her family members to track her down. Those at Scotland Yard had been scratching their heads for weeks.

Alyssa was an old user he had known quite long ago- she was small, not very threatening. He remembered her having long, reddish hair and watery blue eyes. He also remembered the poor officer who had thought he could restrain her- unaware that she had a black belt in MMA. He chuckled… her size and strength was nothing compared to his modifications. It would be easy to overpower her.

He sat down on the roof, above the Fleet street. Sherlock knew this was where she now worked, and where she got the drugs from. All he could do was wait until she came along.

It didn't take long.

Within an hour, around two in the morning, he heard heels clicking on the cobblestones. Sherlock slid stealthily down the stairs and through the shadows.

He could hear Barracks heart hammering in her chest- she had recently used cocaine and drunk, judging by the earthy and bitter smells that she was reeking of. He wrinkled his sensitive nose…. But then again, did werewolves ever stink of anything else?

Alyssa was stumbling in patient heels that were far too big, sparsely dressed. She had a pink, tight tank top on which showed her skinny hips and abdomen; ripped shorts, laddered tights and bruises decorated her hips and legs where she had been handled too roughly by one- or many- of her customers.

Alyssa had dyed her hair and had it cut- it was now shoulder length, layered and blond- but apart from that, she hadn't changed much. She was still skinny, with her bones jutting out, her face gaunt and pale and her eyes looking far too big for her face. In the light, she looked young and lost- it was hard to believe this woman, the one standing mere meters away from Sherlock, had murdered an old man simply to feed the demonic habit that was slowly killing her.

Sherlock sighed- her blood type was B negative but he was craving A positive. John was A positive… _no_- John was his friend. When would he stop having those thoughts? He cleared his throat.

'Alyssa?'

'Hm?' she turned and squinted at Sherlock, before sauntering down the alley. 'Hiya darlin'.' She slurred, pressing her body against his, her hand running down Sherlocks chest. 'If you want it, you're gonna have to pay fur it.'

Sherlock smiled at Alyssa's futile attempts to lure in another customer. He didn't say his next words kindly. 'No, Alyssa, I'm not here for that. I'm here to ask you something.'

Alyssa's eyes widened. She now knew who that was- even through her drink and drug fuelled state, which was making her head feel pleasantly fuzzy, she could recognise that baritone anywhere.

'Sherlock?'

The man turned his silvery glare to her, his teeth clenched. Alyssa visibly recoiled and backed into the wall, her hand withdrawing away from his chest. She tried to keep her cocky façade going, but she could slowly feel it slipping and dread trickle into her stomach.

'It's you… I've 'eard that you're now on the side of the angels. How _boring_. Tell me, Shirley, do you miss me? Do you miss it? The drugs, I mean?' When Sherlock didn't give her an answer and she smiled triumphantly. 'I heard that you're now chasing our kind- mine especially. You never did like us…. Now you're after little ol' defenceless me.' The prostitute pouted and held out her hands, as if expecting handcuffs any minute. 'Did I do anything wrong, officer?'

'You know why I'm here.' Sherlock snapped, his throat burning.

Alyssa rolled her eyes and tapped her foot.

'So? I killed the man. Get over it. You've killed people, Shirley, you know you have. That's just _so _hypocritical of you.'

Sherlock had had enough. He grabbed Alyssa's wrists and pinned them above her head on the wall. She gasped in surprise, her eyes wide and terrified, the pupils in the middle of her blue irises dilated.

'No, I-I didn't mean-don't-'

Barracks struggled against Sherlock's strong grip. Now it was Sherlock's turn to smile and roll his eyes. He raised his eyebrows.

'What do you say, Alyssa? A life for a life?'

He didn't wait for an answer. With one swift movement, Sherlock bit into her neck, just below her jaw.

Alyssa barely concealed a scream; the blood from her carotid artery was beading and running down her neck and it blossomed on her top.

The next thing he knew, Sherlock was drinking, the burning in his throat becoming duller and duller with every tickling second.

The User kept trying to gallantly fight him off, but her limbs didn't seem to want to obey. It didn't hurt, as such- it was more like an itch. It was like when you scratched a gnat bite and it keeps twinging- the venom, she presumed was having an effect on the area.

With some surprise, Alyssa realised her grip was weakening as large black dots started to obscure her vision; she was dying. The thought made her want to cry, but at the same time laugh.

Alyssa knew she was going to die someday- being a murderess, prostitute, user and werewolf did take a toll on your health- but she didn't think she would like this. She always assumed that something else would get her- not Sherlock Holmes. That was the part where she wanted to laugh at the sheer irony of the situation.

As Alyssa slid down the wall, Sherlock let his grip on her soften.

His head was spinning- it made him want to vomit, but at the same time he felt exhilarated. As Sherlock head pounded he gave an annoyed growl- he was high. _Fuck!_ Damn his impatience- why couldn't he have waited until someone _clean_ had come along?

He left the prostitute where she had fell- she was undoubtedly dead. Mycroft would cover- he too knew what bloodlust felt like, he would understand- or Greg Lestrade would help him out.

Sherlock ran as fast as he could. He stumbled slightly, his balance unusually off. However, despite the situation of lust and blood lust he was sandwiched between with John, he felt triumphant. John was safe- he hadn't lost control.

It took minutes to cross London. He climbed through the window of 221B and into the living room. He listened out.

John was still sleeping.

…..

Sherlock was reminiscing, laid on the sofa in his dressing gown.

It had been an old past time, spanning many centuries. Sherlock hardly had time for it now- instead, he loved to get caught in the thrill of the chase; instead of his own memories the memories of the victim. How they lived, how they met the killer… how they died.

But with no cases Sherlock felt himself slipping into his own thoughts. And not to mention the crash from the drug infused blood he had ingested was wrecking havoc on his thoughts.

Time and time again he tried to pull himself out, but one memory in particular was burned into his brain.

The first time he had met John_. His_ John. He allowed his eyes to close, becoming lost in the whirls of colour that now filled his foggy brain….

I recognised the man that Mike Stamford brings to the lab within ten seconds. Simple, easy. But not boring.

Instantly, my brain starts to sort out the differences since I last saw him.

His hair is lighter, flaxen against his skin, which tanned and leathery with war. However, his eyes a striking sapphire blue and his stature was still short. Even his name is different – John? How _boring_. – but I had known him, loved him… once. I'm torn between running across the room- closing the infinite space between us- or running far from this hospital, this town in stark disbelief.

I should've known I'd run into him sooner or later. Until Moriarty had gotten in the way and killed him, we'd been fine. I'd never forgive the dirty filthy wolf... the pain, the decades old grief had been too much to bear. Losing Maliki had almost killed me. The ghost of it now had kicked me in the chest just by his _presence._ Now he was here- sent to ruin me, no doubt. I'd kept him human in his past life- god, how it had killed me not to take a bite, to drink, to turn him- but I'd restrained. He had had so much, woken so many emotions in me even then…

I clenched my teeth. Obviously his soul still had that amazing power.

It had been what, seven hundred and sixteen years? Yes, that's right. Maliki had been normal, as common as nettle… but something still sung, drew me near him. He had been more than _normal, _what was I saying?Maliki had been more than a simple human- he had been _mine_.

I want to hold him, hug him, kiss him, caress him…. But my heart feels like it has been ripped out as I realised. He- Maliki, John, I mean- won't remember me.

I want to stand close to the soldier, _my _solider, inhale his scent, tell him stories, stories of who he used to be and how we used to live….

I sighed. I struggled to blink back tears and didn't meet his eyes. Instead, I ask, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?'

...

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. He hadn't been sleeping- he didn't do that much- but John was awaking early. It was five in the morning. Sherlock sat up.

The smell of John didn't bother him as much as he had before Sherlock had fed. He smiled as John padded, yawing, into the room.

'Morning.'

Sherlock hummed a reply. After a few moments he looked at the doctor, who was staring intently at his face.

'What?'

'You have something there-' John gestured to his own face. Sherlock raised a hand and wiped at the area.

'Gone?'

'No, still there.'

Sherlock wiped at the area again. John smiled and shook his head.

'Damn it John, I can't see it!'

John approached Sherlock. He gently used his thumb to wipe away the red stain on his cheek. He looked at it carefully.

'Sherlock, what's this?'

'No idea.' Sherlock lied smoothly. John looked at him questioningly, before shrugging and going into the kitchen.

'Tea?'

Sherlock couldn't help but smile.

...


	4. Heartbeat

'Anyway, Sherlock, I gotta go. I'm covering Jane's shift, she's sick- I'm going to be back quite late.'

Sherlock hummed as the door clicked shut. I was twenty past five in the morning.

Days, weeks, months? What did it matter? Sherlock was bored, and he lost all sense of time when John was out. He growled as his throat burned viciously and tugged at his hair-He needed a case!

Sherlock threw his book at the long suffering television and trudged to his bedroom. It had been about three weeks since he had been asleep. He was sure it wasn't healthy, he chuckled, but he was a vampire- that was one of the unhealthiest things you could be in the modern world.

He opened the seldom used door- his bedroom still had bookshelf's, books, his chemistry set, spare skull and clothes which littered the floor. It was the same way he left it. He crossed the room and lay on his bed. He held himself stiffly and tried to sleep.

It was a difficult task- he tossed and turned and eventually settled on his back, his eyes clenched.

_Ugh,_ he thought. _Boring. How can John do this?_

He lay like this for hours, eventually relaxing. His thoughts eventually drifted, and he fell asleep. He dreamed of the doctor holding him close as Sherlock told him the adventures of his past life. He was fast asleep, a slight smile visible on his face through the moonlight streaming through the window.

…

About six o'clock, Sherlock awoke with a start. He heard it again- a bang came from downstairs, he was sure.

He listened out and used his nose- the smell of testosterone confirmed that it was in fact, a man. The breathing was deep and uneven, the heart thrumming in his veins. John was home- he must've ran. Sherlock frowned.

_Wait… hang on a second._

The smell that reached his nose was nothing like John- John was sweet, like honey, and orangey with slight hints of strawberry jam. This man was earthy, and the smell of car and petrol started to waft through the flat.

Sherlock swung his legs out of bed and creeped down the stairs.

A man was in the room, his blue overalls dirty and stained. He was armed with a crow bar, as well as many times bigger than Sherlock and about ten stone heavier. He sniffed- werewolf... but he was human.

Sherlock wasn't afraid. He had expected Moriarty to send one of his men sooner or later. But werewolves were many times stronger than vampires- except maybe for the females, who were about equal with vampires and many of them when they were in human for- and it wouldn't take much effort for the intruder to pin Sherlock down and tear him limb from limb. Although this one looked like he had an IQ lower than Anderson (and that was a rarity in itself)… maybe it wouldn't take much to outsmart him? Was brains better than brawn (in this case)?

The intruder was making a mess of the flat- the files which Sherlock and the good doctor had spent ages ordering were now carelessly tossed aside. He was laying his hands on everything-his violin, his skull, his knife-, and that was probably what annoyed Sherlock the most.

'What do you want?'

The intruder turned slowly and sniffed. He licked his lips- it was a quick, darting motion- but Sherlock didn't miss it.

'Oh! Evening Mister Holmes.' He grinned nastily, showing rotting and yellow teeth. 'But can I please ask, is Doctor Watson home?'

Sherlock swallowed. That's what he wanted… he remembered the phycos words. _I will once again burn the heart out of you…._

John! They were going to kill John!

Sherlock tried to keep his breathing steady (well, technically, vampires didn't need to breathe as much as humans…. But it was an old habit, and they die hard.)

'He's not here-'

'-Liar!-'

Sherlock's sentence was prematurely cut off as the intruder pounced.

Sherlock twisted, but he was knocked across the little coffee table by the crowbar. When he tried to get up, starts twinkiling in his vision, he saw a huge, snarling wolf. It was grey, roughly the size of a donkey, and it's huge, bloodshot eyes were staring into his. Using it's massive bodyweight, he pinned the vampire underneath him.

The intruder dug his claws into Sherlock's side, and he hissed in pain. He twisted his head to look at his side; wasn't bleeding- he didn't have enough blood for that- but it sure set his nerves on fire.

'Where is he?'

'I don't know! He should be home by now!'

And on queue, the door clicked. Sherlock's heart froze- but he almost whimpered in relief as he realised it wasn't John, so it must be Mrs Hudson.

The wolf got off of him and bounded over to the door- but Sherlock was quicker.

As the dog's back was turned, Sherlock grabbed him from behind. He smiled when he heard two- no, _three_- of the wolfs ribs snap with the pressure Sherlock was applying. The wolf howled in pain.

Sherlock was keeping his firm grip, but the wolf was shrinking, the claws becoming fingers and hands, the fur retracting into his body and his face was becoming shorter, the chin less prominent. He becoming the size of a normal human. The man in Sherlock grip was in his early thirties, with greying hair.

Sherlock dragged him across the room- the man was looking (and feeling) incredibly sick and lightheaded. With one hand, Sherlock pinned the man down by his chest, ripping off the collar of his taylor made shirt.

Sherlock bit into the man's neck- he howled again, this time it was longer. He must've been in absolute agony; vampire venom has more of an effect on wolves. Their nervous system can't deal with it; it eventually ends up attacking itself and they die before transformation. That's why you don't see half vampire half wolves running around.

Sherlock briefly wondered if he should inject more venom, make it more painful, but the blood trickling down his neck was just too much to bear. He drank the stream that was threatening to stain the carpet, but he made sure he grazed his teeth each time he did so.

The door clicked open.

'Sherlo- Jesus Christ, what the bloody hell do you think you're doing?'

…..

There are moments when you freeze, and then seconds later dread fills the place where shock used to be, and you have no use but to turn around- you've been caught, red-handed; Like a teenage boy with adult magazines. This was that type of moment.

He sighed, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and turned to face John.

Johns reaction was what Sherlock had anticipated- shock, mingled with horror and some… fascination? John stood rooted to the spot by the door, in his scrubs, looking pale with dark circles under his eyes. He looked absolutely exhausted.

'Are you going to tell me what the bloody hell is going on, Sherlock?'

Everything had sped up- his thoughts and time being the two main culprits. He knew it would be seconds before John would leave- leaving him alone again, like when Maliki died. He couldn't wait another five hundred years- Sherlock had to keep him there.

He crossed the room and placed his hands either side of John, shutting the door and at the same time, keeping John there. John flinched- whether it was the noise of the door or Sherlock's sudden closeness he wasn't sure.

Sherlock frowned.

'You are afraid of me?' he asked, a little hurt. When John didn't reply, he leaned his head down, his nose lightly brushing Johns neck. This time the solider didn't flinch, but Sherlock heard his heart beat quicken and pulled away.

'I'm sorry.'

Those two words had such an impact on John- Sherlock never apologised. Ever. Don't get him wrong- he was still incredibly confused, tired and a little bit pissed that Sherlock was keeping him in the dark _again_- but in his heart Sherlock was forgiven. John took his hand and they both sat down on the sofa.

'Sherlock,' John said calmly, taking Sherlocks hand as he looked down, ashamed. 'You can't keep me in the dark all the time.'

The detective didn't meet his eyes. John continued.

'Tell me what is going on.'

Sherlock sighed, before turning his silvery eyes to meet Johns blue.

'If I told you, would you believe me?' he whispered

John laughed- now it was Sherlock's time to be confused.

'Sherlock- my grip on reality has never been that strong. Now I walk in after a double shift, to find my flatmate drinking someone's blood- which is very unhygienic anyway, and frankly, disgusting- and have him also apologise in a space of ten minutes. I think I'm hallucinating. Now, explain.'

Once again Sherlock was confused. And dazzled… the doctor trusted him, but was doubting himself and his sanity. He would never understand John and his soul. He smiled.

'Moriarty is after us.'

'You don't say? I knew that, Sherlock! But what does this have to do with him?' he gesture to the now dead man on the floor.

'There are so many things people- normal ones, I mean- miss. You see, but you don't _observe_- there is war going on around you, and many don't notice.

'I want you to kiss goodbye to logic- everything you know probably isn't what it first appears to be. There is a whole secret society around you; full of vampires, witches and werewolves. Moriarty, and this man here, his whole twisted group are werewolves. Shapeshifters, really- they can change whenever they want, it just takes more effort and is more painful after the full moon.'

John didn't look like he was about to interrupt- instead he listened with curiosity.

'But for the past few hundred years, we've not been getting on… or, more than usual. There has always been a grudge towards wolves- they don't have the control, the power that witches and vampires possess. Really, they're big, scary dogs, an-'

'What are you?'

Sherlock froze. He _knew_ this question had been coming, he_ knew_ it, but he hoped-

'I believe the question is, John, who are you?'

Johns forehead crumpled into a frown. What was Sherlock going on about?

'I don't understand.'

Sherlock's hand brushed against Johns cheek, and embarrassingly he felt his heart beat quicken.

'You John, are incredibly special.'

John snorted in disbelief. He was Dr John Hamish Watson- ordinary, dull, useless compared to Sherlock. In every way, John was inferior- intellect, strength, looks- and now Sherlock was asking John what he was, and telling him he was special. Things were getting odder by the moment... he half expected someone to rush through the door and exclaim 'Surprise!'

Sherlocks eyes searched his face, memorising every line, every blemish in the surface, every flaw. That was what made John all the more beautiful, but he saw that John didn't know he was. If only John knew, and saw, what Sherlock saw maybe he would understand….

'No, I'm not Sherlock. Honest. I'm simple, dull, ordinary, I'm-'

'An old soul.' Sherlock said simply.

John's mouth opened into the shape of an 'O'. He looked at Sherlock, questioning. Jesus, this was a lot of information to sink in. He wanted nothing more than to go up to his bedroom and sleep; but at the same time, he wanted Sherlock to explain what was going on. John decided on the latter, but he was struggling to keep his eyes open.

Sherlock was watching him with interest.

'Your body is new, if you'll excuse my phrasing, but your mind, and soul are older. If I daresay, older than I. Infinitely more powerful too. We knew each other before I met you at the hospital, a long time ago.'

John screwed up his face as he tried to remember.

'Did you see me when I was a kid?'

'No John, I meant in a past life. But this was hundreds of years ago… a very, very long time ago. Before Moriarty took you away from me.' He looked at the doctor sadly. 'You don't remember, do you?'

'Sorry, Sherlock, no…'

'We lived happily. You were called Maliki, and you looked nothing like you do now- except for the eyes and shortness, I suppose...'

'Carry on. Please?'

Sherlock sighed and tried to collect his thoughts and put them into words.

'I was in love with you, and I was sure you loved me to. We were incredibly happily- but Moriarty was after us. I didn't change you into what I was, because I didn't feel it was fair- But I wanted to protect you in other ways, so we fled to France. After many months there, Mycroft assured me that Moriarty was no-where near so out to feed for the first time in months- I remember because I was incredibly weak-and found you gone. It didn't take long for me to find you, by which time-' Sherlock's voice cracked and a tear spilt down his cheek. He sniffed and closed his eyes. 'You were gone.'

Sherlock felt Johns strong, warm hands on his face. His eyes flickered open.

'So I'm an old soul?'

'Yes.'

'Do old souls have… emotional imprints?'

'I think some memories can be recovered, but it is a difficult task.'

There was a pregnant pause, where Johns eyes roamed Sherlock's face.

'Okay… do you still love me?'

Sherlock didn't need to answer-Suddenly Sherlock's warm lips were crashing down on Johns.

John kissed back, flinging his arms around Sherlocks neck as his wrapped around his waist. Sherlock- his Sherlock- was here, and he was graceful and pale and perfect as ever, because he was a vampire. John was an old soul… there was a lot of information to sink in.

Sherlock broke away.

'John,' he said with earnest, wiping away a hot tear that escaped from John's eye with a cool finger. 'I love you. I always have, since our first ever meeting. I don't know whether you do or not, but-'

He was silenced by a quick kiss.

'Moron,' John smiled. 'If I didn't love you, would I be doing this?'

They got up. John kissed Sherlock forcefully, his fingers tangled in Sherlocks ebony hair. In reply, Sherlocks lips slid down to the base of his throat and left a trail of kisses leading up to his jaw.

Kicking their way into Johns bedroom, John groaned and slid his warm hands down the Sherlock's shoulder blades. The detective gripped John closer and his tongue flickered on his neck, before he bit over the pressure point softly. John moaned even louder as he gripped his lovers shirt in his balled up fist.

Sherlock was talking control now. He was being pushed backwards until John felt his thighs come in contact with the soft mattress. He kissed Sherlock again, while his hands ran down the detectives back and underneath his shirt.

He felt Sherlock's famous Cheshire cat smile adorn his face. Nipping Johns lip softly, he pulled away and with one hand started to unbutton his shirt while John pulled his top over his head.

He discarded his top in time to see Sherlocks shirt pool at his feet. The moonlight streamed from the window, illuminating his pale skin. He saw the tousled ebony hair, the swollen red lips and the strange grey eyes, so full of passion and lust. Sherlock looked like a God.

'Jesus…' John breathed. He wanted to keep his eyes open… but he was incredibly tired. He must've been hallucinating… but this way by far the weirdest hallucination he had ever had.

'John?'

Johns eyes snapped open to find Sherlock mere centimetres away from his face. John jumped.

'Jesus! I really don't like it when you do that, Sherlock!'

'Sorry.' Sherlock traced the dark circles under the doctors eyes. 'You're tired.'

'Incredibly. Sorry.' The doctor murmured. 'I was up at three this morning. It takes a lot out of those who need to sleep.' He smiled.

'Was it nightmares?'

John paused before answering.

'Yes Sherlock. It was nightmares. Terrible ones, but I don't really want to talk about it.'

Sherlock sat down on Johns bed, swung his legs over John and lifted himself over so he was on the other side of John on the bed. He wrapped one of his long, cream coloured arms under John and in turn John laid his head on Sherlocks chest.

He was sure John had fallen asleep until he muttered something.

'No… no heartbeat.'

Sherlock smiled and gently kissed John, his heart swelling three times the size.

'No John- no heartbeat.'

The doctor then slid into sleep.

However, sleeping next to Sherlock, he had no nightmares. He was safe, in Sherlocks arms. He was loved, and cared for and had been for an incredibly long time… the thought made him want to laugh.

Sherlocks love for John was enough to scare any nightmares away.


	5. How do I compare thee to a summers day?

John awoke with a start. He kept his eyes closed….

God, what had happened? He tried to recall last nights memories, to make sure…what happened? His memories were fuzzy- he was sure they were only dreams.

He opened his eyes, rolled over and found Sherlock's grey eyes, feeling like they were burning into his soul; Sherlock had slept next to him all night. He couldn't look away.

'Sleep okay?' Sherlock asked, brushing a hand through John's short hair.

'Never better.' John smiled. He gently leaned forward- cautious that, if it had been a dream, he would look like an utter fool- and gently kissed Sherlock, his arm winding round the detectives neck. When he replied, John took Sherlock's full lip between his teeth and sucked. He was satisfied when he heard Sherlock moan.

They kissed again, more eager, Sherlocks cool lips meeting Johns warm ones again and again. Sherlock's tongue begged permission by running across Johns lips. When John parted, he felt the hunger on Sherlock's kiss grow more as his tongue brushed against his own, drawing circles and tasting as if his life depended on it. The feeling was fantastic, and both allowed their eyes to close.

John broke away, when the need to breathe became too much. He looked into his lovers grey-blue eyes, which were mirroring his excitement.

'That was _amazing_.'

Sherlock smiled triumphantly as they both lay back down on Johns bed. John frowned as he saw sunlight was streaming in through the window.

He rolled over (ignoring Sherlock's protests) and he looked at his alarm- it was _ten AM_!

'Jesus Christ!'

He threw himself out of bed, surprised when he hit a mass of Sherlock in the way. He almost fell backwards on the bed, but he was gently held upright.

'Sherlock! I'm late, oh, Sarah's gonna _kill _me. Five hours late, I-'

'Don't worry, John,' said Sherlock, winding his arms around John's middle and placing his head on his shoulder. 'I called in sick for you- you were exhausted. If you don't calm down and relax a bit more, you're going to make yourself ill.'

John felt himself sigh with relief. No work… at least, not today. He didn't bear to think about what would've happened if he'd gone in in his sleep deprived state- what if he'd have given cough syrup to the depressed patient, and the Prozac to the teenager with a cold? It was terribly unprofessional, and not to mention, extremely dangerous.

'Thank you,' he said into Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock smiled as he stroked Johns hair.

…..

John broke away, almost panting. The good doctor was flushed, his eyes bright. Sherlock frowned, but smiled when he realised.

'I am allowed to forget to eat, John, but you can't forget to breathe.'

'I know… it's ridiculous. I just don't breathe… I forget.'

They were laid on the sofa, Sherlock's arm thrown possessively around John.

Looking down at the excited doctor, Sherlock had a thought. There was a question which had been bugging Sherlock all night...

'John, do you have any questions? I mean, it is a lot to take in… you handled it pretty well.'

The doctor twisted, and grinned up at Sherlock.

'Oh, yeah- tonnes.'

'Fire away.'

'Hmm….' John entertained himself by drawing patterns on Sherlock's arm. 'Are you a vampire?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

'_Obviously_.'

'Is Mycroft?'

'Yes. My father also.'

'So you were all bitten at the same time?'

'No. Me and Mycroft were born like this, but my father was bitten and my mother was human.'

Sherlock saw John's eyebrows shoot up. Sherlock smiled and continued to absent mindedly stroke his blond hair.

'Well, a female vampire can't have children with another vampire. Because we don't age, if it was possible the vampire would just remain a foetus forever. My father, however, liked to… experiment. He wondered if it was possible-'

'-And it was-'

'-Yes, I'm getting to that John!' Sherlock said, playfully poking the man in the ribs. 'Be patient! Anyway, Mycroft was soon conceived. The pregnancy was traumatic for my mother, but she survived. Everyone was quite surprised- a normal birth was life threatening then, and a vampire birth... well, I doubt anyone had even thought of it!'

'I was conceived seven years after Mycroft. Bear in mind, this was all an experiment, so there was a chance that the vampire genes- which, I think, are the most dominant- would go different ways with me and my brother. They did-He, for example, aged quite fast. By the time I was born, Mycroft was only seven but looked like he was in his twenties and had the mind to match. I, on the other hand, aged normally. We both sort of stopped aging by our thirties- that is, actual years. That's why he looks a damn sight older than me!'

John giggled. This was all fascinating- John could feel thousands of questions threatening to spill over, for he was intrigued, his imagination sparked.

'Can you fly? Can you sparkle? Can you read minds, can y-'

'John! Calm down,' Sherlock smiled, placing a cool finger to his lips. 'You have all day, the rest of our lives to ask me questions. No, we can't fly, or grow wings. We can't sparkle- where'd you get that idea?- and I can't read minds either. No other special powers, except for heightened senses, immunity, immortality (sort of) and quite a bit of speed.'

'But I swear you can read my mind sometimes-'

Sherlock kissed the top of John's head.

'No, love, I just know how you work.'

John frowned and turned to look at Sherlock.

'What did you just call me?'

The consulting detective looked mystified. He just looked at John, and eventually shook his head, his dark curls bouncing around his face.

'Er, I don't know-'

'You called me… love?'

'Oh!' Sherlock's brow wrinkled. 'Sorry, slipped out- you don't like it?'

'No, it takes a bit of getting used to though. But I like it.' He snuggled into his lovers chest. 'Okay… so you're immortal?'

'Yes. To a certain extent- Mycroft's the better one at this vampire trivia, ask him next time he's over- but I think the eldest vampires are quite a few millennia old. Mycroft and I are only toddlers next to them- but we can stand things that usually humans would be instantly killed by. For example, we can do things like jump off cliffs, land on our heads and still be perfectly fine. I think it's things like extreme heat- and I mean _extreme_, like if we were in the centre of a powerful atomic bomb or something. Oh, and if we loose a limb, we can't reattach it or grow another. If we have our heads cut off… well, you get it.'

'Elder vampires?'

'The elders are the eldest- and therefore, most powerful- vampires in the world. And they're in charge of the world- not just ours, I mean the human world too. They're usually the masterminds behind the police services and they keep our worlds separate as best they can. You don't mess with them, and I don't think they're all vampires-I think you've got a few witches in there, some of them are most definitely old souls.'

'Is that what I am?'

Sherlock tilted John's head with his hands and left a lingering kiss on his lips. John blushed and smiled at Sherlock through his lashes.

'Yes. Your body is still new, but your soul is very old, wise and powerful. An old soul.'

John pondered this for a moment.

'So can people be bitten then? And there's not just vampires, but witches too?'

'Yes. I've never heard of any other vampire like me or Mycroft. There are witches and werewolves- a werewolf is what you saw last night. The man, one of Moriarty's cronies, I mean, when you walked in. And witches… I've only met a few, but if they study well then they can use spells to their advantage. I think Anthea is one. Not sure though- Mycroft's never said, and Anthea hasn't ever preformed anything in front of me.'

'Wow. That's incredible. So are all werewolves bad? I mean, you don't seem to get on well-'

Sherlock laughed, the sound rumbling in his chest. He started stroking the back of John's neck, his arms and his back- It tickled and made goose-bumps rise; John squirmed happily.

'No, not all of them are bad! Look at Greg, he's a werewolf and we get along fine-'

'Gregory Lestrade is a wolf?'

Sherlock frowned, looking at his lovers mouth which had, once again, formed the 'O' that made Sherlock's heart flutter (metaphorically speaking). Sherlock chuckled once again.

'Yes, John, Greg is a werewolf. Remember what I said last night?'

'Yes-'_everything you know probably isn't what it first appears to b__e. You're living in a __society__ full of vampires, witches and werewolves'_… correct?'

'Good, John. It's true, couldn't you see? I'll show you the differences after the full moon next time we're down the yard- you can see he's more irritable than usual and he looks awful. Is that all?'

'I think so.' John had a thought that made a frown cloud his face; he looked at Sherlock, his bright blue eyes suddenly full of worry. 'Wait… no.'

'John, what is it?' Sherlock asked with some urgency, his grey eyes trying to find something wrong with the man next to him. 'Are you okay?'

'No… I'm fine. But what about this-' he gestured to Sherlock. 'Us? I mean… what's going on? What am I?'

Sherlocks frown deepened.

'John, I'm not very good with words… I don't really understand. You're an old soul-'

John sighed.

'No, Sherlock, not like that. I mean, what do you feel for me? What am I to you?'

The detective still looked confused.

'Okay, I'll try and find the words- can you say yes or no?' The good doctor whispered, looking deep into Sherlocks eyes. 'Please?'

'O…kay?'

'Is what you feel for me… I don't know… Desire?'

Sherlock pondered his for a moment. 'Sort of. Go on.'

'Lust?'

'Defiantly.'

John was a little hurt by this. He shifted so that his worried face was in Sherlock's view.

'So I am an experiment?'

Sherlock looked shocked at this, and then frowned.

'Yes.' John looked down, despondent. Sherlock gently cupped Johns chin so that he would look up at the taller man. 'You are the experiment I want to conduct for the rest of my life. Forever.'

John thought about that for a moment, then beamed. With a small contented sigh, he rested his head back on Sherlock's chest and snuggled closer.

'I love you, Sherlock.'

'I love you too John.'

The kiss that they next shared was the sweetest one yet. Stroking John's hair, Sherlock gently recited:

'_Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?_

_Thou art more lovely and more temperate:_

_Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,_

_And Summer's lease hath all too short a date:_

_Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,_

_And oft' is his gold complexion dimm'd;_

_And every fair from fair sometime declines,_

_By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd:_

_But thy eternal Summer shall not fade_

_Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;_

_Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,_

_When in eternal lines to time thou growest:_

_So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,_

_So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.'_

He recited, over and over until John fell asleep. Sherlock still murmured it into John's ear, a long time after he had gently wandered off into the land of dreams.

_You aren't a summers day, John. You are my life, me. You woke me up then, and you are waking the feelings that I thought I had destroyed; love, desire, passion… all of these are for you. My heart is yours. My one sole purpose is to keep you save… I will do anything for you, My Love. Anything you ask, anything you need... I will always be here for you, until you need me no longer._

Sherlock kissed his lovers head and he too allowed himself to gently slip between the folds of reality and dreams. He was completely unaware of the text Mycroft had just sent- but the threat would still be there, waiting, until one of them woke.


End file.
